


something tragic, something magic

by thundersnowstorm



Series: from what i've tasted of desire [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Angst, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, F/F, Grief, Hopeful Ending, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18005009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundersnowstorm/pseuds/thundersnowstorm
Summary: It is easy with Jeyne, to understand each other without needing to explain the grief, the pain. But it is very hard not to feel guilty.





	something tragic, something magic

**Author's Note:**

> Day seven of asoiafrarepairs week - free choice.
> 
> This was meant to be finished and posted Saturday, but between how much longer it turned out than I expected, and the crazy busy weekend I had, it's a few days late but whatever.
> 
> Title is from _From Eden_ by Hozier.

Jeyne Westerling arrives in Winterfell on a cold, clear day, Ser Brynden and Tully bannermen flanking her on both sides. Sansa cannot make out much of her beneath the heavy furs she wears, just a flash of curls peeking out from beneath her hood. 

Ser Brynden dismounts first, kneeling respectfully before Sansa. "It is good to see you again, dear niece." His gruff voice is fond, and Sansa finds the edges of her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile.

"Rise, uncle," she says smoothly. When he is back on his feet, she stretches up to place a light kiss on his stubbly cheek. "I have missed you."

"I'd like to present the Lady Jeyne Westerling," says Brynden, gesturing to where the woman in question has dismounted. Jeyne lowers her hood and sinks into a deep curtsy.

"It is an honor, your grace."

Jeyne is a slight woman with a mess of chestnut curls spilling down her back. When she glances up, her dark eyes are inscrutable. Sansa knows a mask when she sees one. It must be odd, to meet the woman who has inherited both your title and your husband's crown. To meet your dead husband's sister.

"Winterfell welcomes you," she says, and motions for Jeyne to rise. Her goodsister's mask slips upon hearing Sansa's words, revealing a flash of exhausted relief.

"Thank you, your grace," says Jeyne, lowering her eyes. Sansa wonders if Jeyne had feared that she would be turned away, and her heart aches with sympathy. 

She offers Jeyne a gentle smile. "We are family, are we not? Come, I'm sure you could use a hot meal and a bath after your travels."

Before they pass through the arches into the Great Keep, Sansa takes one last look up at the clear sky. She wonders if Jeyne has also noticed how it is the same blue as Robb's eyes.

…

Brynden explains Jeyne's situation over mulled wine in her solar after the sun has sunk deep beneath the horizon. "Her parents intended to marry her off to a Lannister cousin, but once the lions lost control of the throne…" He shrugs. "There is little a Northern king's widow has to offer a husband."

Sansa makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. "Treating their own daughter like cattle at auction - disgraceful." Jeyne is hardly the first woman to be treated as little more than a political pawn for the ambitions of others - Sansa would know - but it is still not right.

"The Lady Sybelle was not King Robb's biggest supporter," says Brynden, and she can hear what he does not say. Lady Sybelle Spicer is far away in the Crag, but if she ever so much as stepped foot in the North, she would taste Northern justice for her part in the Red Wedding. Sansa grips her tankard tighter, willing herself to not get lost in remembering the circumstances of Robb's death.

"And Queen Jeyne?" she asks.

"She cared deeply for your brother," he says. "When Riverrun got the news of the events at the Twins - well, she was inconsolable. Her mother suggested surrendering to the Lannisters during the siege and Queen Jeyne about brought down the roof with her yelling."

"Her own parents betraying her that way - I cannot imagine what that must have been like."

Jeyne has little left to her - no husband, no crown, and a family name that means little and less these days. Sansa vows that as long as she draws breath, she will ensure Jeyne is cared for. It's the least she can do for Robb.

…

Winterfell is lonely these days, emptier than Sansa remembers from her childhood. Reconstruction is never-ending, and she has long accepted that its walls will never quite be the same. There is blood sunk deep into the stones, ghosts watching her from the shadows, and Sansa can never quite seem to shake the feeling of wrongness that comes from ruling over what should have been given to Robb, or Bran, or Rickon. But Robb is dead, Bran far away in the furthest recesses of the North, and Rickon refuses to leave Skagos. Sansa was never meant to stay in Winterfell, was always destined to be lady of some other lord's keep, yet here she is, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North. It does not feel right, but she does what she must and tries to bear the burden with as much dignity as she can muster.

Sansa is the last Stark in Winterfell. She has written a few stilted letters to Jon at the Wall, but they are both too busy to travel. Arya visits on occasion and it is sweet, but she finds it difficult these days to stay in one place for long. And so Sansa remains, the ice queen in her castle of ruins.

There are never enough daylight hours in winter to do all that needs doing, and Sansa finds herself burning steadily through their stock of candles, endless lines of ink on parchment blurring before her eyes. Tonight, it is the steward's report of the castle's expenses that she must go over, and she can already feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind her eyes. If Arya were here, she would ask for help with the numbers - her sister has always had a mind for sums - but she is away in the Riverlands, helping the smallfolk rebuild.

A knock at the door makes her jump. "Come in," she says, pushing the parchment aside.

The door hinges squeak as they open and Sansa files a mental note to speak to the steward. A figure steps through the doorway, the low candlelight flickering across their face.

"Queen Jeyne," says Sansa, careful to hide the tone of surprise in her voice. She has not seen Jeyne Westerling often in the moon since she arrived in Winterfell, too caught up among her own duties and responsibilities. Jeyne keeps to herself for the most part. The servants tell Sansa that she stays in her chambers for much of the day, though she leaves on occasion to sew with the women in the winter town.

"Queen Sansa." Jeyne curtsies prettily, with all the poise of any educated Southron girl. "My apologies for disturbing you, I know it is late."

"Nonsense, my door is always open," Sansa says, waving her in. "In truth, you're giving me a break from these looking at the infernal ledgers. Please, Queen Jeyne, sit."

Jeyne perches on the edge of the chair in front of Sansa's desk, hands fidgeting with her dark wool of her skirts. "You don't need to call me that. Lady Jeyne works just fine."

Sansa has been a lady, a princess, a hostage, a bastard, and a queen. She knows the importance of titles. "You became a queen the day you wed Robb," she says, and tries not to flinch at saying his name. "My presence does not change that. But if you wish to be called Lady Jeyne, I will not protest."

Jeyne worries at her bottom lip. "I was never - Lady Jeyne will do." She gives Sansa a tentative smile. "It would be confusing to have two queens in a single castle, would it not?"

There is more that Jeyne refuses to say, but Sansa does not push it. "Lady Jeyne then. What was it you wished to speak with me about?"

"It's nothing important," says Jeyne. "I know you're busy with many things but - well, I was just wondering if there were any plans to bring a new septon to Winterfell."

In truth, Sansa hasn't even thought about it. She feels vaguely guilty, as though her mother would be disappointed in her for forgetting. "It hadn't crossed my mind," she says honestly. "But I can send a raven the nearest septry if you'd like. I'm sure they could send a septon, though I don't know how soon he would arrive."

"I don't wish to impose," says Jeyne hastily, backtracking. "I know there are more important things you have to worry about, and most Northerners don't follow the Seven anyway."

"I'll write to the septry," Sansa tells her, her tone brooking no arguments. "The sept needs a septon."

Jeyne flushes. "Thank you, your grace, you are too kind."

"The godswood in King's Landing had no heart tree." Sansa doesn't know why she is telling Jeyne this. "A septon isn't the same as a heart tree of course, but - well, I understand."

Sansa herself has not stepped foot in the sept since she was a girl. She had it rebuilt in her mother's memory, but she doesn't think she could bear to look at the statues of the Mother or Father without weeping. On occasion, she will find solitude in the quiet recesses of the godswood, but she does not pray.

Gods, old and new alike, have done little for Sansa Stark.

"Thank you," repeats Jeyne. "If there is anything I can do for you in return, I am at your service." Her sweet, earnest eyes remind Sansa of Margaery Tyrell, though there is an sorrow to Jeyne that the maid of Highgarden did not have.

"If you could free me from these ledgers, I'd be eternally grateful," says Sansa, half-joking

"I could take a look at them if you'd like," offers Jeyne, serious. "I've always been good with sums."

Sansa opens her mouth to protest, then thinks twice. The ledgers don't have any sensitive information, and Jeyne seems genuine about her offer. It couldn't hurt to get some fresh eyes on them. She slides the parchment across the desk. "The numbers are off, but I can't seem to find where."

Jeyne takes the papers, holding them closer to the light from the candlestick. She is quiet for a moment, eyes scanning the page. She chews at her lip, an action that seems to be an unconscious habit of hers. It's likely something her septa admonished her about, but Sansa finds it oddly endearing.

"Here," Jeyne says at last, pointing to a line towards the bottom of the parchment. "The purchase of wool from the Flint Cliffs. It says twenty-two bolts of cloth were bought, for twelve stags apiece, but the total was written as 244 stags. It should be 264 stags."

Sansa blinks in surprise. "I wouldn't have caught that if I had looked at the ledgers for another two hours. Thank you."

Jeyne ducks her head at the praise. "It's no problem, truly."

"Might I request your eyes again tomorrow?" Sansa asks. "You're not obligated, of course, but sums seem to be determined to defeat me."

"I'd be happy to," says Jeyne, a slight smile on her lips.

She has a pretty smile, Sansa thinks, unbidden, and is not sure why that thought brings a twinge of guilt with it.

…

It has been a long time since Sansa has had this sort of easy female companionship. Winter makes fathers wish to keep their daughters close, rather than send them as ladies-in-waiting to the queen in Winterfell, and the servant women are too conscious of the class difference to truly befriend. Jeyne, once she accepts Sansa is not going to dismiss her for speaking honestly, relaxes and begins to open up.

She's an uncommonly kind woman, Jeyne Westerling. Grief has broken many a person, turned their hearts to stone, but Jeyne still has a softness to her that only a fool would mistake for weakness. Sometimes it is like looking in a mirror, looking at this woman who has lost so much and never let it break her.

("I forget they're dead sometimes," Sansa says, and admitting it feels like the twist of a knife. "Sometimes I think that Father is merely travelling, that Mother is in the sept, that Robb will be back from a hunt soon. It doesn't feel real sometimes."

"I loved Robb," says Jeyne, voice cracking, "but Raynald was my brother. He was there the day I was born and every following day, but not anymore. It can't be real that he's gone - it shouldn't be. It's like some cruel joke the gods are playing on us, heaping more and more death upon us."

"If the gods are this cruel or callous, I don't think I much care to worship them."

Jeyne shakes her head. "The alternative is far worse for me to imagine.")

They speak of Robb often. They knew different sides of him, the brother and the husband, the boy and the king, and together they begin to piece together a more complete picture of the man he was. It still hurts, just saying his name, but maybe it is less painful. They speak of Raynald, of learning to live without a brother as one learns to live without a limb. They speak of the Lannisters, and it is here that Sansa learns the wrathful side of Jeyne, the endless pit of fury she holds within her. Sansa understands a little too well.

("I should have known," whispers Jeyne, late one night when the only light in Sansa's chambers is a low-burning candle. "I should have known what my mother was doing. She never believed in folk remedies, but she swore the posset would help us conceive. I was a fool."

"She is your mother," Sansa tells her. "Of course you trusted her." She swallows. "I told Cersei Lannister of my father's plans." Sansa has never spoken of this to another living soul, the guilt almost too much to bear. "I was a stupid selfish, child who thought she could be trusted."

 _It's my fault,_ she wants to say, but the lump in her throat won't let the words come out.

"You were a child," Jeyne says, grasping her hand tightly. "Nothing more than a pawn in the game."

"Does it ever get easier?" Sansa asks, hardly audible. "This guilt?"

"I'll tell you when I find out myself.")

They speak of other things too, of lighter topics. Jeyne has a touch with the harp, can coax music as sweet as birdsong from its strings. Sansa shows her Northern embroidery techniques, and Jeyne makes her a silvery grey cloak with Tully-blue flowers stitched around the edges. With Jeyne, Sansa learns to forget to be a queen and remembers what it is like to be nothing more than a girl.

Winterfell begins to prosper again. The glass gardens, destroyed in the Ironborn attack, are rebuilt with glass panes imported from White Harbor and seedlings brought from the south. While winter rages on outside, the enclosed gardens are warm and humid, the air heady with all sorts of fragrant scents.

"Oh, it's wonderful!" exclaims Jeyne, face tilted up to absorb the sun's meager rays. Her cheeks are still rosy from the cold air outside and her eyes are bright.

"The glass gardens were always my favorite place in Winterfell as a child," Sansa reminisces. The new gardens are smaller, the greenery less lush, but as House Tyrell was fond of saying, the plants were growing strong.

"It's like a pocket of spring in the middle of winter." Jeyne's smile is like a ray of sunlight breaking through clouds, and Sansa is struck by a need to make sure it never leaves her face.

On impulse, Sansa reaches over to a bush beside her and snaps off a single winter rose. She hands it to Jeyne, mindful of the sharp thorns. "For you, my lady," she says.

Jeyne brings the rose to her nose, eyes closing momentarily as she breathes in its delicate perfume. "It's beautiful," she says, and Sansa feels her breath catch in her throat. 

"Not as beautiful as you," Sansa murmurs. They are standing bare inches apart, close enough for Sansa to notice the flecks of gold in Jeyne's warm brown eyes.

Some have said that Robb won the war on the battlefield and lost it in the bedchamber. With Jeyne before her, curls escaping her braids to frame her heart-shaped face, Sansa thinks she can understand why.

She doesn't know which one of them leans in first. Jeyne's lips are warm, slightly chapped from the harsh winter winds, and Sansa does not think she has ever tasted anything half as sweet. Her eyes flicker shut and her hand reaches out to Jeyne's waist to steady herself.

That seems to jerk Jeyne out of her stupor. Inhaling sharply, she pulls away. "Robb - we can't," she says hoarsely.

The guilt hits Sansa like a crashing wave. "I'm sorry," she says, backing away. "I shouldn't have - I'm sorry."

"I should go," says Jeyne, her normally open face hidden behind shutters. "I should - "

Jeyne all but flees. Sansa watches her go, watches the red ribbon in her hair disappear into the snow outside, and tries not to throw up from the guilt of it all.

…

The statue for Robb's tomb is still unfinished. Winterfell's masons have been occupied with other matters, and carving the statues for Robb and Father is not as much a priority as, say, the structural integrity of the granary.

It is to the godswood instead, that Sansa goes to remember them. Father loved it here, could spend hours in thought kneeling at the roots of the heart tree before Mother came looking for him. Mother had always found it an eerie place, claiming the old gods did not appreciate her Southron blood. But Robb - Robb and Jon would play-fight among the trees as children, returning with dirt stains on their knees and mischievous smiles on their faces.

Sansa closes her eyes and lets a single tear leak out. Robb. What would he think of her now, wearing his crown, ruling from the castle that was meant to be his, kissing his wife? He is gone and here she is, enjoying everything that should have been his.

 _Stupid, foolish girl,_ she berates herself. Kissing Jeyne was a mistake. She let herself get caught up in the moment, let herself mistake friendship for love. And now she would be lucky if Jeyne ever spoke to her again, if she saw her as anything more than some lecher who lusted after her dead brother's wife.

A branch snaps. Sansa scrambles to her feet from where she had been kneeling, whirling around. It is Jeyne, hanging back at the edge of the clearing, eyeing the heart tree nervously.

"Your grace," she says, and Sansa's heart plummets. Jeyne has not used her title in several moons now. "My apologies for disturbing you."

"None of that, Jeyne, please," says Sansa, wiping away a stray tear with a hasty finger.

Jeyne swallows. "I've interrupted your prayer, I should go." She turns to leave.

"Please don't," Sansa blurts out. Jeyne freezes, her back to Sansa. "I don't pray much anymore, you know that," Sansa says. She doesn't know why those are the words that come to her.

Jeyne turns back, eyes shiny with unshed tears. "I know," she says, voice shaky. She looks at the heart tree that looms large behind Sansa. "Robb spent a lot of time in the godswood in Riverrun too. He didn't pray much either, just liked the quiet."

Sansa flinches. "I'm sorry for the other day. I shouldn't have kissed you."

Jeyne shakes her head. "I shouldn't have run away. I was scared but I wasn't - it wasn't your fault."

"Still. It wasn't right."

Jeyne makes her way to Sansa, stopping less than an arm's length away. "Why? Because I was Robb's wife?"

Sansa laughs humorlessly and her eyes will not meet Jeyne's. "I wear his crown and rule from his castle. I cannot take his wife too."

"I loved Robb," says Jeyne, and her words take on a ferocious inflection. "I still love him. But I did not belong to him, Sansa. Nor do I belong to you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply -"

"I knew Robb for four moons. They were some of my happiest days and I will never regret them. But I cannot let the rest of my life be defined by those four moons." Despite the tears in Jeyne's eyes, there is a hardness behind them. "After everything, don't we deserve love again?"

Sansa lets out a choked sob. "Robb died. How can we just go on when he never even got to see seven and ten years of life?" She is older now, older than her big brother will ever be. One day she will be older than her mother, older than her father, and _it's not fair._

A tear slips down Jeyne's cheek. "We cannot forget him. We will never forget him. But we also cannot forget to live."

It has begun to snow, big, soft flakes that stick to Jeyne's eyelashes and disappear amongst her curls. It had been snowing the last time Sansa saw Robb, standing outside Winterfell, the snow melting in his hair. He had hugged her tight and made her promise to be safe, to be _happy._

Jeyne's lips taste like salt, and Sansa knows hers must too. She lets out a shaky breath and her hands go up to cup Jeyne's cheeks. Her stomach curls with desire, with guilt, with grief, and maybe, perhaps, with something like hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit for this fic is [here.](https://thundersnowstorm.tumblr.com/post/183242115661/something-tragic-something-magic-it-is-easy-with)


End file.
